


Nothing but Thieves

by beastdrips, beatitupright



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, it's all gone to shit, wowie zowie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastdrips/pseuds/beastdrips, https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatitupright/pseuds/beatitupright
Summary: Lor’themar remembers the servant clad in white, and he realizes too late that he hadn’t recognized her.





	Nothing but Thieves

From the draperies to the crown moulding and the ceiling from there, the ballroom is adorned with red and gold and white. It is a sea of yellow light shimmering onto the reflective marble flooring, the flames dancing on the candles of the chandeliers above causing the most delicate of glistens. Truly a sight to behold. And Rommath, in all his elegance, blends into it effortlessly. This evening he has traded in his usual mask for one much more lavish. It is set over the top half of his face rather than the bottom, his bright green eyes glowing from within the white and golden feline-esque face. Lor’themar and Halduron wear similar masks to veil their identity, each eluding to an animal of choice, though it is nearly impossible to tell which. Just like his own their dainty camouflage had been crafted vaguely, beautifully, with only hints to the creatures they portray.

As Rommath makes his way up the steps to sit in his overly lavish seat next to Lor’themar’s (and Lord Theron’s might as well be called a throne) he studies the man with the vaguest of interest. Tonight Lor’themar truly does look like a king, what with his formal attire and armor pieces that hold little more than ornamental value. It strikes Rommath with a pang of pride, but he is sure Lor’themar is especially uncomfortable. Whether he is or not, though, can’t possibly read on his form.

“Rommath,” Lor’themar greets him without averting his gaze from the ballroom floor. The tone of his voice is curt, but not unfriendly.

“My Lord.”

Halduron perks up at their exchange and Rommath can see him lean forward from the other side of Lor’themar to give him a small wave. He, too, is uncharacteristically sumptuous. Rommath must admit he looks rather dashing. He thinks his mask must be some sort of hawk. How fitting.

“Good evening, Ranger-general,” Rommath says with a nod of his head and Halduron offers a gentle grin.

“You look very nice.”

Rommath has to hold back a good humored laugh. Compliments from Halduron on his state of dress have always held little weight, but he is courteous nonetheless. “Thank you, you look lovely yourself.”

Halduron looks rather proud to have gotten in Rommath’s good graces and he leans back against the plush of his seat with confident posture made anew. To some extent it is amusing, but Rommath can feel Lor’themar’s gaze upon him as if the words exchanged across his personal space had interrupted something very important. The look he is being given is so vaguely disgruntled that Rommath is at a loss of what the proper response might be. His own personal go-to is the bubbling frustration he already feels at Lor’themar’s wordless accusations, but he ebbs its edge for now. He is glad when Lor’themar finally speaks.

“I hate to interrupt,” Lor’themar begins, his voice is strangely cold and Rommath recognizes it as frustration, probably largely due to his royal predicament, “but there is a matter I must speak with you about.”

“I am at your service,” Rommath says calmly. Not a touch of malice.

Lor’themar leans in, an elbow resting on the arm of his throne-like seat, his fingers stroking his beard. “We’ve less than a quarter of an hour before the celebration begins, and I must confess a select few of our guests worry me.”

“How deliciously ominous.” Rommath’s voice is seeped in sarcasm. In all honesty the words are quite foreboding, but he assures his discomfort is not made known. Lor’themar simply grunts in response.

“I’ve caught word that House Vinvian is quite highly disapproving of my efforts as Lord Regent. Perhaps I cannot please everyone, but I’ve heard their efforts to oppose my own are bordering radical.”

“Have you told Halduron of this?”

“Of course.”

Rommath shifts uncomfortably in his chair and crosses on leg over the other. Behind his mask his eyes move about the crowd until he finally spots his target. Lord Athiantis Vinvian, head of his house and annoyance of the court. Rommath knows the family, but he had hardly considered them a threat in the past. Their approach to the change they seem to seek is disorganized at best and unruly at worst, but if Lord Theron himself is at unease then perhaps something is lurking below the surface. Rommath will admit to his shortcomings to himself if no one else, one of his largest being that he gives little attention to things he deems unworthy. Such as this.

“If I may, what spiked this sudden paranoia? Vinviant has been troublesome, but hardly an actual threat up until this point.” Rommath lowers his voice an octave further as he speaks and he can see one of Lor’themar’s ears tilt toward him, listening though he is looking away.

Over the music Rommath cannot hear it, but a sigh heaves Lor’themar’s shoulders. “They were quite persistent in getting an invitation to this event. They have never shown interest before, I hardly doubt they are well suited to the game such politics play… And yet…”

Such information is indeed suspicious. Rommath heeds it and also turns his gaze back to the crowd. Suspicious and true are wildly different things, however, and he certainly hopes it to be nothing more than a worry causing a crease in his Lord’s brow.

 

○○○

 

 

Before tonight, Lor’themar had viewed Vinviant as nothing more than a bothersome upstart - little more than a thorn in his side - but as the evening went on with its festivities, he had come to notice something.

Though one-eyed as he is, the Lord Regent sees a great many things, one of which is the way Lord Vinviant weaves through the crowd, speaking in polite but hushed tones and always leaning in oddly, his torso always tilted away from Lor’themar’s general direction. Every once in a while there’s a glance towards him. At first, it hadn’t bothered him in the slightest, but as time passed and the unreadable glances toward his majesty increased, a seed of doubt began blossoming within him.

Trouble is afoot, that is for certain. The moment this thought comes to him, he leans over to Halduron and voices his concerns. The Ranger-general agrees that yes, there is a certain air about tonight that seems unusual. Naturally, the out-of-place glances had piqued his interest as well, which does not surprise Lor’themar in the slightest. The man has a keen eye, perhaps more so than the Regent himself, even if he is less practiced with the political side of things.

The growing suspicion is certainly putting a hamper on his mood, and thus he doesn’t offer Rommath a welcome as he joins them - fashionably late, as is his want.

After a moment of silence between the three of them, Lor’themar clears his throat to grab their attention.

“It would seem we have other matters to concern ourselves with, beyond simple mingling,” he says, trying to keep the edge of tension that wants to creep into his voice away. He speaks without facing either of them, though he can see Rommath prick his ears in the corner of his good eye.

“Halduron, why don’t you go entertain Lord Vinviant for a moment?”

“Is that such a good idea, my Lord?” Halduron says in a hushed voice, leaning in closer to his Regent. “If your suspicion is right, and he is truly up to something, wouldn’t he be made cautious if we spoke to him?”

“Not necessarily,” Lor’themar says. “It is in our best interest to maintain good relations to all our Lords and Ladies, and it wouldn’t be seen as strange for the Regent’s advisers to mingle, so long as you don’t let anything slip. Don’t single him out, approach him while he is with a group.”

Halduron nods and then stands from his extravagant seat, straightening his lavish robes before he picks up a golden goblet filled with wine, likely to seem more approachable, and bid farewell to his present company. Soon enough he is swallowed by the crowd, and Lor’themar and Rommath are alone.

“Rommath,” Lor’themar says. “I want you to speak with the Lords, see what you can find out about their relationship with Vinviant. If he’s truly up to something, someone is bound to have information with how much he’s been skulking around tonight.” 

“I trust you will be discreet,” he adds, turning to peer at Rommath through his mask. Its face is broad and golden, vaguely depicting an animal which many associate with rulership; a regal mask befitting of a king. Though Lor’themar has come to grow into his role over the years, he is still slow to think of himself as a monarch. Lord Regent is a heavy enough title by itself, without the extravagance of being the King of Quel’thalas.

The allotted time for an heir to make themselves known is coming to an end. Soon enough there will be nothing hindering Lor’themar from taking the crown, and he wonders just how things will change, then. Will there be dismay among the people? Will there be a new, sudden pressure for him to take a wife and produce heirs of his own?

“Of course, my Lord,” Rommath replies through all of Lor’themar’s private musing, offering a slight dip of the head. He stands with slow grace, a contrast to Halduron’s swiftness. “I will do my best to put your mind at ease.”

Left by himself, Lor’themar feels free to let his scowl break his carefully neutral facade. He is still within the scrutinizing eye of his people, however, and so he, too, leaves his seat. His steps lead him towards one of the balconies, the cool air enveloping him as he enters the near chilly night. He slips a hand underneath his mask to rub at his face, his breath caught in the mask making it feel clammy and uncomfortable. But he doesn’t remove it in fear of sudden company, so he suffers the discomfort and tries to focus on the breeze hitting the uncovered half of his face.

The balcony’s railing is made of swirling gold, jewels sitting embedded in the middle of each spiral and dotting the expanse of it almost like berries on a bush - except the bush is golden and hard, and the berries would sooner crack your teeth than feed you. He leans upon the metal, letting his ears droop and posture go lax. The bustle of people is but a whisper behind him, and he finds comfort in the nightly sounds of outside. It reminds him of the forest, of living the life of a ranger and not a Lord, and it strikes yearning for a life lost into his heart.

But he is unable to cling to memories brought on by woodland smells from the garden below for too long, because what Rommath had said earlier makes him alarmingly aware of the curve of his spine, due to unease. _Paranoia_ , he had called it, and Lor’themar can’t help but wonder if that’s truly what it is. Had rulership twisted his perceptions of his people so soon? He is a man to trust his instincts, but now he finds himself questioning them on behalf of his adviser.

He tells himself to calm down, that even if there’s nothing sinister going on behind his back at least he will have the comfort of sending his right and left hand to investigate the matter. If they came back empty-handed, perhaps that would be enough to still his worries. But however he turns it around in his head, Lor’themar cannot shake the image of Vinviant whispering among his peers, bright green eyes flickering towards their Regent one by one.

 

○○○

 

With his robes fluttering about behind him, Rommath’s gentle strides carry him down the steps and into the crowd below. Though he is adorned with a mask, his runic tattoos give him away easily, and so dare he approach a group their conversations are nearly always reduced to hushed whispers. Rommath does not fret over the idea that they could possibly be about him because they most certainly are. Comments on his choice of dress, choice of mask, political choices in his past. Somewhere amongst the ocean of faces around him he is sure Kael’thas is mentioned. He could not possibly care less. The initial shock of betrayal and death had indeed shaken him, but now he stood tall and proud beside his new leader. Kael’thas belongs in the past, buried with his transgressions.

A certain Lord finally manages to catch his eye. He is loud and surely stinks of wine, but his conversation can be heard and he has not missed a beat in the vague exchange of information with the lady he is entertaining. Indeed, not even Rommath has learned any more about this man through his eavesdropping, yet the stranger never seems to quiet.

As Rommath mulls over a plan of approach, one glance behind him tattles on Lor’themar’s tardiness. He does not allow worry to tug at his gut. After all, Lor’themar had probably only needed a break from socializing. The balconies are the best bet of where he could be, and guards protect the doorway leading to them. Lord Theron is most certainly safe and not a pressing matter. Not like the stranger ahead of him who he hopes, though shallowly, has the answers he seeks.

Rommath’s final plan of action is simple in nature, but mischievously dishonest. As a servant passes with her tray of glasses, Rommath snags one for himself and approaches the small group of light haired elves. They all look strikingly similar and Rommath’s gut twists with contempt for the practices of nobles. Undoubtedly there had been some sort of inbreeding in their past to keep the bloodline ‘pure’. How strange it is to think these types are considered with the highest regard in elven society and how proud Rommath feels for not having been born into it. Through his years his skill and knowledge had lead him to high standings. Not the name of his house, that of which he no longer carries.

In the end, his efforts fall flat. The longer the conversation carries on, the more weary Rommath grows. Lord Dawnshield, as the man had introduced himself, is hardly pleasant company. His voice is grating on Rommath’s ears by the end of their exchange and he has to pay attention just to keep his form from sagging out of sheer disinterest alone. Absently he scans in the crowd around him for Halduron. The Ranger-general should be easy to pick out in his elegant and overdone ensemble, that paired with the fact that he stands over half a foot taller than the women and at least a quarter of that over most of the men. It takes a surprisingly long moment before he can pinpoint him, however well he sticks out against the crowd.

“I’m afraid I must be rude,” Rommath finally says and dips his head in a courteous bow, “I have business with our Ranger-general and it would be unkind to keep him waiting.” Dawnshield bids him farewell and Rommath exits his overbearing presence with haste.

Rommath is not pleased when Halduron tells him of his difficulties dealing with Vinviant.

“He is an exceptionally… Strange man,” Halduron confesses as he pours himself more wine. He and Rommath are standing near their own bar at the front of the room. The thrones meant for them are but a few feet away, blazing gold against the darkness of the massive, arching windows behind them. When dusk had fallen isn’t something Rommath can remember, but it certainly doesn’t ease his mind. Lor’themar is still nowhere to be seen.

“He is not the only one. Have you ever met Lord Dawnshield?” Halduron shakes his head at Rommath’s question while sipping his drink. Rommath scoffs. “He’s fruitless. If he knows anything he is far too busy talking about his own life to seem impressive to ever veer to the subject.”

Halduron looks somewhat forlorn. His lips press into a thin line and his hair waves with the swift movement of his head when he takes a suspicious glance at the crowd. “These parties are enough without this sort of worry. I usually enjoy them somewhat, but this is really putting a damper on the mood.”

“I confess, it comes as a surprise that you actually enjoy any of this.”

“Just because Lor’themar tires of it doesn’t mean I can’t have fun. Not all farstriders are as against looking pretty as he is.”

Rommath huffs a laugh. Halduron’s cheekiness can be seen through his veil.

 

○○○

 

Though he feels he could remain out on the balcony for the rest of the night, Lor’themar knows all too well his presence would be missed. He certainly shouldn’t be making himself scarce during a possibly sensitive time - if there truly is people out for his dethroning. With one last wanton look towards the cloudless sky and its twinkling stars, he pushes himself off the railing and heads inside.

“Has anyone asked for me?” he questions one of the guards standing on either side of the arch leading out into the cold air. The guard shakes his head.

“No, my Lord.”

That’s good, or at least he hopes it is. That means no one could gossip too terribly about his short absence. He makes his way over to his table, notes the empty chairs of Halduron and Rommath, and reaches for his goblet. He sips the wine thoughtfully, the pensive crease between his brows shielded by his magnificent mask. After a moment a servant approaches him, clad in modest white with her light hair pulled in a bun atop her head.

“A refill, my Lord? It is nearly time for your speech,” she says, raising the golden pouring vase she held in her hands.

Lor’themar nods, and lifts his goblet so she is able to top off his drink.

“Thank you,” he says and dismisses her with a dip of the head. He makes his way around the table to stand before his throne, looking out over the crowd. For the moment, he hasn’t the faintest idea what his speech will encompass. It all feels dreadfully trivial, and he finds he’d rather be making a motivational talk to boost morale of soldiers rather than garner the approval of the court.

While he turns words over in his head, sipping his freshly filled wine, Halduron breaks away from the crowd and approaches him.

“There you are,” he says, a slight smile tempting at his mouth. “I wondered where you slipped off to.”

“I was getting some fresh air,” Lor’themar replies. “The combination of wearing a mask and large crowds make for a stuffy evening.” Halduron gives a hum of agreement.

“Have you heard anything?”

“No, my Lord. No one has said anything suspect, they’re either fewer than we thought, or they’re keeping their secrets tight. So far there have been no wine-loosened tongues.”

Lor’themar gives a frown over his goblet. This was not the news he hoped for, but if there truly was something sinister afoot he probably shouldn’t have thought it to be solved so easily.

“A pity,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “Well, suppose I should get this speech over with.”

He leans forward to grab a utensil off the table, and proceeds to rap it against his goblet. The sound rings out clear and loud, successfully grabbing the attention of everyone in the room. Lor’themar puts on his most regal smile, raising his drink to those gathered. He speaks of glory and great purpose, speaks of the blessing of their Sunwell and commends the strength of their people. There is passion in his words, despite their forced nature. He believes in the sin’dorei, and makes it clear in his speech. It takes a good long while before he finishes with a clear, “Glory to the sin’dorei!” 

Everyone who is able to raises their drink in a toast to their Lord Regent, and in unison do the Lords and Ladies of Quel’thalas take a hearty drink of their wine.

With the speech over and done with, everyone returns to their chatter and mingling about. Lor’themar lets out a soft sigh, feeling suddenly weary.

“I think I will sleep well tonight, with luck,” Lor’themar says. “It’s a good while until midnight but already do my limbs feel heavy.”

Halduron claps him on the shoulder, touching his goblet to the Regent’s with a smile. “You deserve to,” he says. “I know your duties can be trying, but I doubt anyone could’ve done it better than you, my friend.”

Lor’themar offers the Ranger-general a grateful smile, feeling touched by his praise. There are certainly times where he doubts his own ability, but he has been keen on avoiding the mistakes of his predecessors, and he ultimately wants what’s good for his people. There have been choices he’s regretted, and some that has not sat well with those who follow him, but when he truly takes a moment to consider it, he feels he, on the whole, has done the best he can.

Somewhere along with his thoughts, Halduron says something to him, and he turns to him slowly - when did he turn away from him? He blinks slowly, and strains his ears to make sense of it. He can plainly see his mouth moving, but for some reason the phrases just don’t register. Another voice, raspier and less friendly, responds, and Lor’themar realizes that Rommath has rejoined them.

He looks between the two, a hand touching at his mask when they seem to be little more than blurs of color. He can’t feel the metal of his mask. In fact, he can’t feel his hands at all. There’s a loud noise, his goblet clattering to the ground and spilling his wine all over the floor.

“My Lord?” finally registers in the haze his mind has become, but he can’t for the life of him make out which one of them is the one who spoke.

“Something is wrong,” he says, hardly anything but a slur. He sways on his feet, and Halduron - it had to be Halduron - exclaims something urgently and wraps an arm around his waist to steady him. Desperately he grasps for purchase with his hands, Halduron’s shoulder most likely. Staying on his feet is a struggle, and it’s hard to concentrate with the sudden noise of people noticing.

While his vision swims, Lor’themar remembers the servant clad in white, and he realizes too late that he hadn’t recognized her.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote Rommath's POV and Beastmouth is responsible for Lor'themar!


End file.
